


Denouement

by stunningepiphanies



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Death, Mentions of Cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-04-23 03:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14323326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunningepiphanies/pseuds/stunningepiphanies
Summary: The story of Vox Machina has to end somewhere. But maybe, just maybe, it's not all so terrible.A series of short pieces detailing the deaths of Vox Machina.





	1. Grog Strongjaw

It's a dragon that does him in, in the end. Grog is well into his fifties and, as powerful as he is, isn't quite in the same shape as he was when he and Vox Machina were still adventuring. The dragon, an ancient blue thing by the name of Blitzslag the Sky Flayer, takes him down with some effort; it's a fight she ultimately loses, but no one can survive a dragon claw to the heart, even Grog Strongjaw. 

Most of Vox Machina is there with him when he goes down. Keyleth has barely aged a day since the fall of Vecna, but has years of training and wisdom behind her to aid in the fight. Vex has a faint threading of grey at her temples and few lines at the corners of her eyes, but she’s as eager to have Fenthras in her hands again as Scanlan is to flex his combat muscles. Percy is absent, and that fact will haunt him for years to come—but he is only human, and that means age catches up to him far sooner than his friends. He directs from afar instead, while young Freddy takes his father’s place as sharpshooter. 

The battle is fierce and Grog falls like the champion he is, speared on a claw for mere moments before his friends land the killing blow. Pike is to him as fast as she can manage, but it's far too late. It's far too much like Percy’s death at the hands of Raishan—he's been gored, his guts scattered like so much gold from a dragon’s hoard. She doesn't even realize the screaming she hears is her own until she finds herself bundled into Scanlan’s warm but shaking arms. “It's alright, sweetheart,” he whispers, barely holding her up. “You’ll fix him. You always fix us.”

The resurrection doesn't take hold. It's always a risk, she knows. They’d gotten unforgivably lucky in the past, it was bound to happen eventually. Scanlan insists on a second, more intensive ritual in Vasselhiem, but it seems fate’s design is set in stone. Pike briefly considers going to the temple of Vax’s Lady, but….no. Grog is in a better place, as much as the ache in her chest kills her. This is the proper way for him to go, not of old age in his oversized bed. This way, they’ll sing songs of his bravery. Scanlan will make sure of it. 

Percy sees that a funeral befitting of the Grand Poobah is thrown in Whitestone, though it's more of a festival in his memory. There’s food, and fighting, and so much ale that the collective hangover stalls the entire city for three days afterward. A life-sized statue is installed in the cemetery with the rest of the titled dead. 

The fact that it's right next to the Raven Queen’s temple is purely coincidental, of course.


	2. Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III

To his own amazement, Percy’s demise doesn't come at the end of a gun barrel or by an assassin’s dagger. It starts innocuous enough, a little cough that settles itself in the back of his throat at the start of his 77th year that grows into full hacking fits with blood speckled on his lips and handkerchief by the end of summer. He knows what it is before anyone else tells him. It's years of his own carelessness, breathing in toxic fumes in his workshop without proper ventilation or a tight enough mask. He was foolish enough in his twenties, but this? It's almost a kick in the arse from the universe. Spend years fighting litches and dragons and all manner of horrible people, and be rewarded with the consequences of your own negligence. 

It's fitting, really. 

All the physicians and clerics tell him what has taken root in his lungs can't be cured with magic. It's not a disease as much as it is a malfunction of the body itself, and it can't be banished with magic any more than the deep sadness that’s lived within him his whole life can. And besides, he let it go in so long without letting anyone know that there’s nothing to be done. It's already spread to other parts of his body, they say. He doesn't doubt it—he can feel the pain creeping up on him daily.

Vex is furious with him against first, then despondent, then desperate beyond all measure. She does everything she can short of draining Whitestone’s coffers to find his cure, working herself to collapse after a few months. It all comes to a head when, one night , Percy comes across his wife asleep in a nasty looking book written in Abyssal. After that, he bars all efforts to handle his condition and forcibly takes Vex on one last holiday to the coast. 

“I finally understand Delilah now, you know,” she whispers to him, curled into his chest on the last night of their trip. “I would watch the world burn if that meant I could keep you.”

“It’s for the best,” he sighs. “I've only, what, ten more years or so left? I’m not worth the trouble now.” He smiles at her, like he did when they were young and full of trouble. She can't help but notice the blood in the creases of his teeth. 

Lord Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III dies in his own bed, but he isn't surrounded by his family. After a long parade of all of his various and uncomfortable grandchildren come through his room, he deems it silly and useless for anyone to watch and wait for an old man to die. Everyone but Vex, Cassandra, and Vox Machina are banished to lower levels of the castle to wait out the inevitable. It actually takes a full week after the clerics tell him he’ll die, because like a de Rolo he has to thumb his nose at Death one last time. Near the end, Scanlan offers to try and fix this, to wish the cancer eating away at his body into thin air. Percy refuses, but he has to smile.

Percy is given the grandest most ostentatious state funeral Cassandra, Vex, and his children can manage. Dignitaries from across Emon arrive to pay their respects. Emissaries from Vasselheim and Marquet, too. After a near disaster with some Syngornian mourners and a representative from Pyrah, Vex deems it more appropriate to hold his funeral out under the sun tree, reasoning he would've liked it better anyway. 

It's a lovely funeral, though at the end of the service a curiously large raven shits on Percy’s coffin and flies off cackling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next is Vex!


	3. Vex'ahlia de Rolo

Vex is only 133 when she passes on. And truly, she does pass on, with little fuss or mess or to-do. She isn't ill, or infirm, and there's no horrible accident to take her before her time. She wakes up one morning, knees aching and eyes blurred as they have been for decades, and _knows_ in her heart of hearts that this will be her last day. It's not worrying, not really. It's nicer to know that the end is coming—that means there's time to plan accordingly. And there's time to indulge herself. 

Which is the important thing, really. 

She wanders downstairs at her usual time for breakfast, and spends a little longer than usual lingering over talk and coffee. A great-granddaughter and her new twins are here for a visit, as is Velora, and it's just so nice to sit chat that she nearly runs out of time for her other errands. Her baby sister is older now, but she still looks so, _so_ young. It's comforting, knowing her sister will be here for her family for generations to come. And judging by the way she plays with the babies, Vex knows she'll relish keeping them safe. 

It's actually been years since Vex has been able to patrol the wood by herself, age being what it is. But she still takes some time today, a grey-muzzled Trinket watching her every step like he's afraid she'll trip. "Oh, buddy," she sighs, absently scratching him behind the ears, "I'll be fine. See? I've got my cane and everything." trinket just huff grumpily in reply. He knows, she realizes. Oh, the _poor_ dear. 

After her patrols in the forest she pays a visit to her family up in the castle. She only lives down the hill, but it's always a delight for Grandmother Vex’ahlia to pay a visit that she throws off the whole flow of Castle Whitestone for several hours. She tells stories to the little ones, and when she tires out Trinket takes over for her. While the children torture her bear, Vex had a glass of wine with her grandson, the newest lord (for thirty years now). She presses an envelope into his hands and makes him promise not to open it for twenty four hours. It's so difficult to plan a funeral while grieving, so she's already done the hard part for the poor boy. 

On her way out, she makes a small detour to the family crypt, explained away as a rare moment of morbid sentimentality. It's been years since she's been down here—Cassandra and Percy insisted on its continued use, but there are far too many horrible memories down in the crypts for Vex to ever want to be there. It's less unpleasant now, the bodies reinterred and stonework replaced so carefully that you would never suspect a rogue necromancer fucked up the place for years. Vex says a small word at the final resting places of four of her children and her husband. She hopes she'll see them all soon, though there's a knot of worry at the pit of her stomach when she thinks of her husband. He was always so set in his ways, there's a chance she won't find him again. 

Oh, if Pelor still has love left for her, she prays he'll be waiting for her. 

By the end of dinner, the sun has started to sink behind the mountains, and a little hitch in her chest tells Vex it's time. She leaves her family covered in kisses and bear slobber, and starts making her way back out to the woods, to the bench. It's full dark when she finally arrives, but it's a comforting dark, like a thick quilt thrown about your shoulders. She finds a carpet of snowdrops waiting here for her, and an uncommonly large raven as well, perched on the bench and eyeing her expectantly. 

He _would_ be showy about this, the little shit. 

“Well. Let's get going, I haven't got all night."


	4. Scanlan Shorthalt

Scanlan’s life is tragically cut short in Marquet when he is 387, the victim of a poisoning by a young upstart in the local underworld. It's almost brilliant in the intricacy of it—the plan takes years of infiltration and careful information gathering on the part of Scanlan’s rival. And still in the end, it's pure luck that Scanlan is acting in the role of Aes Adon when the assassination is put into action. A handful of days later would've seen his grandson Dranzel take the poison instead. 

The poison is snuck into his wine at the end of an exhausting and extensive meeting with his most trusted advisors and lieutenants. It's a salve rubbed into the gold of his (ostentatious, ugly, tacky, delightfully brash) goblet, the nature of which makes it undetectable to his usual security attendants. Alone and in disguised with only his daughters and two closest hands, he drinks from the poisoned cup and goes down in seconds. Even if his wife were there, there would’ve been nothing to do to prevent him from dropping. In less than a minute he’s still as the grave and Kaylie is already ready for a horrific rampage through the underworld of Marquet the likes of which no one has ever seen. 

Pike receives word from her daughter Juniper and she’s in the city within six hours, with Keyleth and her companions in tow. Centuries of wisdom on and Keyleth still lapses into angry tears when she sees her old friend's body; Pike just collapses to her knees. Her son Vax, a follower of Sarenrae like his mother, tells her that he tried the ritual on him earlier but received resistance from their Lady like he's never felt before. 

Pike thinks she understands. 

The ritual she starts is uncomfortably familiar, but she dutifully shoves down the nausea threatening to overtake her and reaches out to her goddess. Keyleth places a single raven feather on Scanlan’s chest to aid in the ritual. Juniper sings to him the Ballad of Vox Machina. Pike reaches out and takes his hand, intent on speaking her love into him—

But instead he speaks to her. 

_”Hey, Pikeypants, I think she needs me to stick around this time? Catch you on the flip side._

_Oh. And Vax says ‘hi’.”_


	5. Pike Trickfoot

Little Pike passes away a good run into her 400s, and she is content. Older that her great-great-grandfather, a matriarch to countless grandchildren and great-grandchildren and on and on, the gnome credited for the grand revival of Sarenrae across the world. She's done wonderful things with her life, and she's at peace knowing her end is coming soon. 

Keyleth takes leave of the Air Ashari for a few years when they both sense the end is near. As the remaining members of their now legendary family, both women know how important it is to appreciate their last moments together. Keyleth is finally showing some signs of age, this far on. She's not greying, but there are creases at her eyes and around her mouth now, looking more like the mother she is rather than the scared girl she thought she was. She attends to Pike day and night, a nurse and a friend at the same time. Really though, the company is all Pike truly needs, though sometimes it _is_ nice to have her own giant cat to ride around on to do her errands. 

“Can I tell you a super secret?” Pike asks Keyleth one night, both women bundled up by the goliath sized fireplace in her home, the one she built with Scanlan and Grog that she just can't bear to leave. Keyleth perks up at this, then leans forward conspiratorially. Pleased her bait did the trick, Pike leans forward too and grins like to make her surname proud. “In the beginning, you know, I had the biggest crush on Percy.”

“No _way_.“ Keyleth gapes, then after a beat she bursts into a fit of giggles. For the first time in years, they both feel a little like they did in the old days. No looming specter of death or loneliness over either of them, just two friend sharing some silly gossip over a drink and a night in. “Did we all fall in love with him at least once? Oh my gods.” The fit of giggles turns to full blown laughing, and then a stray snort sends Pike into fits with her. Both women stay like that for minutes, laughing and clutching at each other until they're in tears. And then those tears of laughter turn into something else, though neither of them could tell you when it happens exactly. They’re not….they're not tears of sorrow, not really. It's more of a bittersweet thing, like saying goodbye to an old friend who’s going off on a grand adventure. Keyleth knows Pike is bound to a truly awesome place, and Pike isn't distressed to be leaving. Honestly, a tiny part of her can't wait to be back in the loving presence of her Goddess. 

But. It's hard to say goodbye. 

They fall asleep like that, tiny, age shrunken Pike curled into Keyleth’s side like a cat. The morning sees a warm blanket thrown across both of them, though they can never figure out where it came from. No one else is scheduled to visit for weeks. It's just as well; once they both wake, Keyleth sees that somehow she left the window open all night going by the small buildup of snow under the sill. 

She never does notice the black feather that had drifted in with it. 

Two weeks later, Pike dies peacefully in her sleep, old age finally too much of a burden for her tired body. The funeral is modest, but packed to the brim with her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren and great-great-great-grandchildren. It's everything her husband’s funeral wasn't, so it's absolutely perfect. Keyleth stays for two more days to see off her old friend’s body to Vasselheim, and then says goodbye to Westruun for one last time.


	6. Keyleth

It's been over a millennium since the last of Vox Machina passed on. The Exandria they knew would be unrecognizable to them today—great paved roadways criss-cross the once vast landscape, plains and forests now replaced by gleaming cities of glass. Where they were rare in Vox Machina’s day, skyships are so common a sight that one rarely sees an open sky without at least two passing overhead. Nowadays, to see clear skies is to be truly lost in the wilderness. Tal’dorei hasn't existed for nearly 500 years, though the two countries that now occupy that same space are so similar and find themselves in such a docile peace that the distinction is nearly moot. 

Adventuring isn't what it used to be, but it's by far no means an extinct way of life. There's just less to explore now, fewer monsters to kill and mysterious riddles to solve. All that's left now are the most dangerous and deep wildernesses, the frontiers where only other adventurers and monster hunters are willing to reside. Things are to be had in the cities, as well, because as much as people try, sewers and underbellies will always be full of intrigue and gross trash rats. And people will always go diving headlong into it, the whisper of adventure and money always that beautiful siren song to those with restless hearts. The biggest change, and the one that makes Keyleth’s heart ache the most, is the ever-present firearm. Guns supplanted the sword a good three centuries ago, the latter now only extant in museums and tales of days long gone by. Adventurers, thieves, and law enforcement alike find themselves armed to the teeth now, though the ease with which with mages can now meld guns with magic would make Percy absolutely green with envy.

 

Keyleth often gets this new brand of adventurer coming through Vesrah, like it's a pilgrimage to those who lay their lives on the wind. They sit with her, she feeds them tea and cakes and she tells them the stories she knows they came to hear. If not for her, the story of Vox Machina would have weathered into myth long ago. But she keeps it fresh, because despite the years her memories haven't tarnished in the slightest. She can still remember the way Percy’s eyes flashed when he learned of the Briarwoods’ visit, how Pike’s little hands felt when she pressed healing into them, how Vax’s smile crooked up just a little when he was being a particular shit. Her visitors particularly love the story about the goldfish, though she only tells that one if someone brings her good Marqesian wine. 

Adventurers aren't the only ones to come to her door on occasion. Lady Keyleth, Voice of the Tempest, has the distinction of being one of the oldest living rulers in the world, though in private she would tell you she chafes against the notion that she rules _anything_. But it's how the other leaders of the world think of her, and she is far too old to go about correcting children. She’s more of a protector of nature now than any true ruler. She stepped down from official duties three centuries ago, content to let a younger generation take control of the tribes and forge their own way in this brave new world. In her time she's learned that it's far more healthy to let things change than staunchly stick to the old ways. A forest can't truly thrive if the ancient canopy chokes out the sky and lets new growth wither and die. 

Her great-grandson Kerrek is new growth, left to thrive and grow out from the shadow of his grandmother. He's something entirely new, what they're calling a technodruid. To her ancient mind it makes no sense, but Ker found a way to twine electricity and wire and magic with nature itself, elevating the Ashari to a plane she never knew they could reach. It's still a new kind of magic, only a handful of Ashari still experimenting and elevating themselsves and the community. But it's enough. It's proof to Keyleth how unnecessary her brand of….her???, has become. Wait, no. _Archdruidism_ , yes, that. Not that she's obsolete, no, just that the new has supplanted the old. 

As it should be. 

Keyleth retires to bed one windy (natch) evening in Vesrah and finds herself immediately in Whitestone. Not the Whitestone of the present, a gleaming, modern thing called Alba, but the Whitestone of her youth. She recognizes the hill she's laying on—she and Vax used to sneak off here on easy days, to kiss and do things the felt far more comfortable with with dirt under her knees rather than oversoft mattresses. Keyleth turns, and is unsurprised (but surprised that she's unsurprised, and it makes no sense but it's a dream, so—) to find Vax there, dressed down as he would be when there was no threat of dragons or litches or, god, trolls or something? Just a simple linen shirt and leather trousers, his feathered armor probably packed away in a nebulous dream box full of lavender. He smiles that crooked little smile, and she knows what this means. 

“Soooo.....,” Keyleth starts, trailing off awkwardly. What do you say in this kind of situation anyway? _Oh hey Vax, let's bone before I die like you're obviously here to tell me about_? Vax’s face is peaceful, neutral for just a moment before he breaks and just laughs his ass off. And it's in that moment that everything feels _right_. 

One week after the first dream, Keyleth makes a slow procession to the Raven Tree, grown massive over a millenia of care and love. She hasn't bothered to let much of the outside world know, just her own daughter and grandchildren. They, out of everyone, deserve to be here. The rest of the world can find out tomorrow.

A massive raven alights on her shoulder, but she pays it no mind. It caws, pulls at a stray lock of slate grey hair and tucks it behind an antler. The tree looms large and imposing above her, but all she feels is love and life pouring out from every leaf, every chip of bark. 

Keyleth reaches out one weathered, steady hand. 

A flash of light. 

Feathers


End file.
